Nightcall
by Anti-canon
Summary: Summary: Human AU- Stiles is just your every day, run-of-the-mill rent boy. Only he didn't always used to be. A series of drabbles about Stiles and the many men he beds to keep his life afloat.
1. Scott

**A/N: So…. I blame this on the Drive soundtrack. Ya, let's go with that. Honestly, I have no idea where it came from, I just know that it happened because of Drive. Which, if you haven't seen it, what's wrong with you? Go watch it now. :P Anyways! Don't hate me for writing this because it kinda, maybe, might not have a real purpose or even structure. It just happened because I take the train to school and I get bored and so I write a lot of drabbles, and I actually liked these ones enough to string them together. :P Geez, and if you weren't questioning reading it before you probably are now! It's just cuz I'm a pro like that. Ehm…. Please comment! I love any and all things that y'all have to say and it makes me so happy to see you took the time to write me a little somesin' somesin'. Please enjoy. ^^**

* * *

Your one thousand square foot apartment isn't exactly glamorous, but you do what you can with it.

After all, if someone's paying you for sex you want to do everything you can to dispel the 'nasty hooker' ideas that most of them are expecting. No one wants to get down and dirty in a place that looks like it could damage much more than their reputation. Since you can't afford anything outside of the shadier part of town (because let's be honest, you're good, but you're not Julia Roberts good. At least not yet.) you decide to focus on the inside.

Your place is sparsely decorated, the majority of your profits going toward hospital bills, but everything you have was carefully chosen, thought out months in advance. The cool greys painted on the walls calm, quiet, soothe. There's a pot of branches on the coffee table with handmade paper cranes hanging from each one- all varying shades of blue. It's a motif you've found often used in spas, which are certainly classier than here. To tie it all together you buy several of those glass jars with crisp scented oils and bamboo sticks. At first you'd tried incense, but the heady spice was a little too much, made you feel like a courtesan being passed from randy knight to knight.

Your bedroom is impersonal, but not clinical. The men you see don't want this to feel like a business arrangement, but they certainly don't want to be reminded that you're a bonafide "real boy" with a life outside of taking care of their every pleasure. It's a hard balance to keep, but you've been pretty good at toeing the line so far. There's a lot at stake. The bedding's monochrome, the walls are devoid of any pictures save abstracts. The humanizing touch is a vintage record player standing in the corner, and because you're classy like that you have a separate collection of vinyl's picked out just for when your men come calling. Music that's got a little grunge, a little quiet edge, but nothing so bold as to distract. It took a few tries to get the selection just right.

It's really not as bad as you'd thought it would be, hiring yourself out like this. You'd expected the worst in an effort not to fool yourself with just what you were getting into. You'd expected men with vicious appetites and a dark tint to their souls. Most days it's more like a rest stop for the lonely hearted. Even if it hadn't been, you'd never regret the decision. This was something you had to do and so you do it gladly. The ends justify the means. That's logic enough for you.

Luckily the first man you ever had turned out to be more of a boy, nearly a puppy to be truthful.

His name was Scott McCall and you gathered he was just as new to this as you were when he greeted you with a handshake and actually gave you his real name, first and last. He had big brown eyes, an adorable pout, and a crooked jaw with a smattering of scruff that compelled you to scratch at his chin while smiling like a dope. Of course you saved that for post-orgasm moments, but still.

He'd followed his high school sweetheart to an out of state college, leaving his family and friends behind, and when she'd decided they needed some time apart, he came to you for comfort. He likes to play it like you're more friends with benefits than 'he's got a need and you've got a skill'. You actually get along strangely well, conversation flowing easily and a casual intimacy even more so. He comes over and spends a great deal of his time bemoaning his situation, eats you out of house and home, and watches all the best campy movies with you.

Sometimes it all starts with horseplay, the two of you wrestling over the couch until it eventually turns sexual. But most times something or other will remind him of her and he'll start to get a little sad, which is your cue to make him happy in the way men love best. You provide a shoulder to cry on, lips to quiet with, hands to soothe, a whole body to lose himself in. He never breaks the illusion by bringing his own condoms or lube, by asking you to do things differently, to explore. He shows up, you lick his wounds, and while you're on the shower he sets the money in a neat pile on the nightstand and takes his leave.

Sometimes you genuinely miss his company.


	2. Issac

Personally you like to call them 'Johns'.

The phrase is a little old time-y, you know, but clients is so…. clinical. Lovers is too emotional, tricks too gritty, escorts too formal. So you refer to them as Johns, and if you had to pick a favorite out of all the men who visit, it would have to be Isaac.

He is quiet, gentle, and he never makes you feel cheap. Most visits he shows up with a box of chocolates or an inexpensive piece of jewelry and a shy smile on his lips. He looks up at you through his lashes and often seems to find himself unconsciously transfixed by your face. He stares with something like awe in the stillness of his features as the pads of his fingers drag across your cheeks, your eyelids, your lips. There's a breathy little chuckle that always escapes when he catches himself and it makes your nose wrinkle in a kind of smile.

In contrast, the noise he makes when you're in bed sound more like pleas and sobs than anything else, and it used to throw you off your game. He likes to lay side by side, his thrusts shallow, his breathing stuttered, one hand splayed across your ribs. Your legs always clash and tangle, but he likes to hook you closer with them, squeezing just this side of painful when he comes and lips absently at the curve of your shoulder. Isaac usually naps lightly once you're both clean, and he talks in his sleep. You gather all you care to know about his troubled past and why he might have trust and intimacy issues that lead him here. It breaks your heart more than you should probably allow, but you've never exactly been conventional.

When he wakes and dresses it comes time to pay and he clams up, becomes awkward and fidgety. You kiss him chastely and play with his curls and call him your little lamb, and eventually he opens back up. He hands over the bills while brushing the tips of your noses, like an old tv sitcom husband might reluctantly give his wife cash for a new kitchen appliance he doesn't see the use for.

No, Isaac never makes you feel cheap, but more often than not his visits leave you sad and feeling more than a little guilty.


	3. Jackson

**A/N: Heee, this one's one of my favorites. Jackson is just such an adorable little prick. :P **

* * *

There's little disposable income to speak of in your budget, and as such your wardrobe has sort of fallen by the wayside (among many other things).

It's funny to think that this has actually upped your profile, though. Most of your shirts are faded and worn- a good deal of them too small to properly fit. The sleeves climb up into your armpits and the hems barely manage to meet the waist of your jeans. Any time you move your arms they ride up and varying degrees of skin peek out. The three pairs of pants you own all have holes, but certain ones have them in worse places. The cut of them was probably out of style ten years ago, but they hug your ass well enough and it's not like you've ever received any complaints- at least not any that you pay any mind to.

The one who did- a young guy, pretty close to your age you think, named Jackson- he's by far your most wealthy and most attractive John, but he's not much of one for pleasantries. The first time he saw you, scanning a local club for potentials, he gave you a thinly veiled once-over and called you a whore. You suppose you only reinforced the idea when you sucked his brain out through his dick five minutes later in the passenger seat of his Porsche. He still calls you a "pretty little slut" but at least he lessens the sting with a generous amount of cash after his visits as opposed to the less-than-impressive hand job he'd traded that first night.

Instead of weekly standing appointments like the majority of your boys he'll usually rent you out for any given weekend and bring an overnight bag to your place. The whole time he cracks jokes about how he's probably going to get shanked on his way over, or catch a venereal disease from your toilet, but he also makes you breakfast and likes to share hot baths and spends long hours waxing poetic about the softness of your skin.

Despite his arrogant douchebag exterior, Jackson likes to bottom nine times out of ten and afterwards you spoon for hours, his face buried in your shoulder. He whispers softly about how badly he wants to take you out to fancy restaurants, to cheesy romantic comedies, to spontaneous vacations in Paris and London and Madrid. He confesses how he hates waking up and not seeing you beside him, and every time he asks how much it would take to make you his and his alone, and you're reminded of just how he sees you before you can get too starry-eyed. It's a cold splash back into reality every time, but you're glad for it. Otherwise you just might take him up on the offer some day. Usually you just respond by disappearing beneath the blankets and making him forget he ever asked the question in the first place.

Once the beginning of the week rolls around he closes back up and stops calling you by your name- or at least the one you give all of them. He haggles and barters over your pricing, saying you talk too much and you never have the kind of lube he likes, and he should get some kind of frequent flier miles or an amazing performance discount or something. In the end he makes the check out for twenty percent more than you asked originally, kisses you goodbye long and slow, and calls you a fag as he closes the door. It's never not mind-boggling.

With the extra money you get your dad a present and buy an outfit suitable to wear to the hospital.


	4. Boyd

**A/N: Sorry if you wanted to see some Boyd sexin's, you won't get it in this chapter. D: I just see him as such a white knight and I couldn't possibly sully that view of him. :P There's some definite flirtations though! **

* * *

There's an old-fashioned boxing gym in your way to the convenience store, all red brick and tattered posters.

You'd gone in there once, feigning interest in work out routines one slow afternoon, but they had all seen through you in an instant. The vast majority weren't interested in what you were selling, turning their attention back to their fights quickly enough, and it seemed that it was destined to be a fruitless venture until one of the younger boxers stepped up to you with a groan and a weary sigh. He was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, and he had a predictably monosyllabic name. Boyd seemed like he might be 'of the persuasion' to take you up in the silent offer, but he was much too smart to be roped in so easily.

He chastised you for being so careless with yourself in a place like this, pointedly gesturing at your slim frame and provocative clothing. He may have had a bit of point. This neighborhood was exactly the kind of place to attract the wrong kind of attention and you're pretty sure you wouldn't have much of a chance fighting off someone who didn't take no for an answer. So you walked out of there with a different kind of proposition than the one you had planned, but still one you were inclined to accept.

Now your Thursdays belong to Boyd, a weekly appointment just like all the rest. He never takes things further than they ought to go during some rudimentary self-defense training, but all the same his hands travel the length of your body, his chest ghosts across your back, his breath hot on your neck. You even take tumbles on the floor, though they're never as fun as they could be.

Later you'll learn Boyd's nearly as strapped for cash as you are- he's just chose to sell his body a little differently than you have- and that puts a damper on your flirtation. You don't think he'd ever be foolish enough to waste a payout on your company, but sometimes the way he looks at you….

Men have done crazier things in the name of love and lust.


	5. Peter

**A/N: Beware! This section is really quite explicit and sometimes vulgar. It uses a derogatory word that I do not condone, but definitely felt like it belonged to convey the kind of mood that I wanted. If you're not interested in all the details, here's what you need to know to safely skip over this chapter:****_ ***Spoilers***_**** Peter is Stiles' landlord and takes sexual favors instead of money for rent. He's rough and terrible and has come very close to breaking Stiles' will. ****_***End Spoilers***_**

* * *

Peter Hale is your landlord and you suppose if every story has a villain, then he must be yours.

You have no one to blame for the contract but yourself, after all you were the genius who'd thought it up. It's happened while you were still new to the game, still basing your behavior off movies and pornos. It was a classic trick- pay the building manager with sex instead of cash, reap the rewards of being young and virile. You needed the money, and Peter was all kinds of hot and willing.

Now, with all the…. experience you have, you would have noticed the dangerous hunger in his eyes, the tell-tale glint of an appetite less than savory. You can recognize it easily enough when you go looking for new men, pick out those who have the capacity to go too far, to take too much. They're turned away almost immediately and with Boyd's help they leave it well enough alone.

Even with the both of you though, you don't think you'd be able to hold off Peter. He's smart, charming, ruthless, all the things a man of his conscience should never be. He comes for you once a month, never on the same day. He is to be seen the second he arrives, and has thrown half-naked regulars out on more than one occasion. It was pretty bad for business at first, but most of your Johns these days are set on you in particular and offer you pitying glances as they leave. By now they all know about him, as you often have to schedule a few days of recovery after his visit and bump their appointments.

He's not really animalistic in the way he takes you- that would imply a sort of passion to it. No, Peter has you with his hunger, this emptiness that he just can't fill no matter how hard he tries. His body's lean, but he's stronger than he looks and willing to use more force than he should. His cock's short, but fatter than any other you've ever seen, and he's hardly got the patience to prepare you properly for it, make sure you're ready for the stretch. He only fucks you but one way- on your stomach, with one of his hands on the back of your neck, pressing your face into the mattress, almost to the point of smothering, while he rams you open and cuts in the skin of your hips with his nails.

He followed your rule about condoms the first few times, but doesn't even bother with pretending like he forgot now. Most times he pulls out before he comes so he can spill over your back and the angry red of your hole, though honestly it's more of an ooze. While he's got plenty of stamina, Peter's old enough that going twice isn't usually something he does, and when he comes it seems as though he literally has to squeeze the semen from his erection, glopping it all over you before rubbing it into your skin and fingering what he calls your "filthy man-cunt."

It's not half so bad now as it was at first.

Afterwards you mostly just feel numb, maybe a little hollow. When he's done he jerks your off- more painful than pleasurable- and leaves with a smile on his face and sometimes a pair of your briefs in hand. The next few days of soreness and eating your feelings remind you that you're still alive, still here, surviving, and so you carry on.

It almost breaks you every time, but it hasn't yet. Not yet.


	6. Matt

**A/N: This section has some pretty mild underage and voyeurism. Just thought I'd let y'all know. :P If you don't like it, it's really not that bad, but you can skip this section and pretty much miss absolutely nothing. Herp-derp. **

* * *

Cameras and "home movies" aren't really your thing.

You've had a couple guys that wanted porn on in the background, or maybe needed it to get started, which is a little strange, but everyone's got their damage you suppose. Honestly though, you wouldn't trust the majority of your Johns to keep that stuff off the internet so you mostly don't allow any kind of lens, but there's this kid named Matt- the exception to your rule. After all, isn't there always an exception?

You saw him first in an alley behind the local strip club, attempting to look inconspicuous and only succeeding in making himself seem more shady than anyone else. There's always one or two boys like him, with a surplus of money and a deficiency of common sense. They all think a fake ID works just as well for sex as it does for alcohol, though it's much easier to guess out their proper age when they're naked and trying to hold back a premature orgasm in a well-lit room than when they're hiding their face from a bartender in a smoky, shadowy club.

This boy's something slightly different, though. A little bit darker, a little bit twisted. When you turn down his money the first time he doesn't spit profanities in your face, doesn't stalk off angry with a shield of superiority covering the sting of rejection. Instead he bites his lip, pauses a moment, and then smiles. He does something you've never seen before. He makes a new sort of deal, one that's a bit safer for you and still somehow quite beneficial for him. For some reason, one you still can't quite fathom, you accepted, and now…

Now you're kneeling on you mattress, spine arched, legs spread, as you press your fingers deep, deep inside and splay them open. The catch of his breath across the room steals your attention and you roll your head his way, sharing a half-lidded stare with the camera. A red light blinks up near Matt's face and bathes his broken expression in an eerie pallor. He makes a pained sort of whine and slouches down in his seat, a hand shoved down the front of his pants and a dark spot spreading through the crotch. You throw the camera a smirk before climbing off your sheets and cleaning yourself up.

You're horny as hell now, but you push it down, throw on some boxers, and toss him a clean washcloth. He frowns deeply and your quick change of pace, but sets the camera and starts cleaning himself up. He grumbles the whole time about how one day he'll last long enough to catch you coming on tape. It makes you smile, not unkindly, as you hold your hand out for the cash. Seven minutes of video, twenty-five dollars a minute, the easiest $175 you ever made. You might feel a little bad taking it, if he wasn't so prideful and assuming. It actually gives to a bit of a thrill to have so much power over the boy.

It feels like a definite kind of corruption, but one you're more than capable of living with.


	7. Derek

**A/N: Hooray! Derek's finally here! Haha, anyways! This section is by far the longest, because Derek. ^^ It's also as far as I've written so far, and honestly I don't know whether or not I'll go any further. I had fun writing these though and I'd love to hear what you guys think! So... ya. :)**

* * *

Love is for people who don't have bigger responsibilities, or at least that's what you've told yourself.

You're convinced that it's not something that happens to a guy like you, and so you don't bother to keep an open mind or a clever eye. Still, you like to read about it in books and for it in movies and dream about it at night. It's all your father wishes for you, and the main topic of your conversations at his bedside. You tell him a lie of sorts, though you call it more of an untruth. The parade of men coming through your apartment are suitors, the money they give you tokens of affection, your sad, empty apartment a palace. He's just desperate enough, just worse enough off to believe you most times.

You've been in business just over two years when you see it on the news- local sex offender Peter Hale arrested for Public Indecency at the park down the street. You're equal parts relieved and scared, and somehow that makes you sick. What will happen if they shut down your apartment complex? You don't have enough saved for a security deposit, for first and last rent somewhere new; and it's not like you have the kind of job where you can ask for an advance. It wouldn't be as bad if you didn't work out of home. No one wants to go to a homeless shelter for a lay, no matter if you give them a discount or not. Even if you get to stay, you'll be getting a new building manager, maybe one less than simpatico with your situation, and actually having to pay rent will mean giving up food that doesn't get cooked in the microwave. Among lots of other things.

You get a letter in the mail three days later, telling of a nephew of Peter's that coming to take over all his responsibilities- one that's "a nice young man without no immoral proclivities." You don't know exactly what it is that you're expecting, but's definitely not the young prince of broodiness and eyebrows that shows up at your door. He's muscular… and handsome… and _lord his eyes. _You stand there, gaping like a fish as his brows knit closer and closer together, until he finally pushes his way inside. You would be offended, because hello, manners, what are they? But then you get a good look at his ass as he makes his way to the living room and it doesn't seem like such a big deal anymore.

He looks intensely uncomfortable as he sits down on the very edge of the couch and takes in your sparse décor. You try and pull your shirt down over your stomach and silently wish that you would have been dressed in your nicer outfit. "Uhm… I have… poptarts aaaand… water." You gesture to the kitchen and give him a sheepish smile when he makes a face at the suggestion. "Anyways…" You clasp your hands together before sitting across from him and trying to keep yourself from blathering all over the place as he continues his stony silence. After several tense minutes and it's just too much and you tug at your collar as you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. "Do I look like a prostitute, because I feel like I might, but then again I try very hard to make sure my house emphatically says 'I do not turn tricks for a living' and I think it's really quite effective, but maybe not effective enough to distract from the rent boy clothing that you're clearly trying to avoid staring at."

His eyes go wide and his jaw clenches as he stares determinedly at the floor. "I- don't know how to answer that." He grips tightly to his knees and it seems like, for a moment, he's contemplating making a run for it before the shrill ring of your landline shatters the atmosphere. You jump to your feet immediately, knowing there's only one place that calls, and try to keep from flashing him some ass while you dash to the kitchen. You take a deep breath, say a little prayer, and cross your fingers before picking up the receiver and grasping it so tightly your knuckles go white.

Peter's nephew- you just now realize you don't even know his name- is watching from the couch, not even pretending to look like he's not eavesdropping, but somehow you don't feel like he's invading at all. His expression seems genuinely curious, if maybe a little bit suspicious. You try to stay calm as the nurse on the line tells you that your father had an episode this morning, that the doctor made the decision to put him in a medically induced coma. You mostly just do a lot of nodding, not thinking that she can't even see your confirmation, trying and failing to swallow past the lump in your throat. You lose track of what she's saying somewhere in the middle, lose track of really everything but the need to try and keep on breathing.

The whole room fades to black, and for a while you're lost in that vacuum, knowing that you're starting to hyperventilate, but unable to do anything to stop it. You start to shake, your knees feel weak, and you're sure that if you grip the phone any tighter it'll break. A pressure on your shoulder is the first thing to break through and then, slowly but firmly you're pulled out of the downward spiral. Sensation spreads out from that single point, a gentle voice asking you to calm down, intense eyes holding your focus, firm hands pulling you away from the doctors telling you anything but.

The next bit is a blur, your brain and body moving on auto-pilot as Peter's nephew- he told you his name but you only remember it sporadically- offers you a ride to the hospital, gives you a plastic bag to breathe in, keep shooting you worried glances. You don't realize you're crying until he tells you there're napkins in the glove compartment, and then they suddenly feel blistering on your cheeks. You hastily wipe them away and stick your head out of the window to try and cool down, your skin slick and feverish.

When you get to the hospital, you can't focus enough to recall your father's room number but Derek- his name is Derek, it feels nice on your tongue- finds it out quickly enough and guides you there. He stays when you finally crack and bawl into your father's lap, and distantly you think you might've asked him to. You're sure he has something better to do than to stand awkwardly in the corner of the room when he doesn't even know you, and yet he doesn't even look like he considered leaving.

You black out for a little bit, fall asleep bent over his bed, and when you wake up there's a leather jacket over your shoulders and Derek's hunched over in a chair across from you. You think he can see that you're more yourself now because he stands immediately and fills a plastic cup with water from the bathroom sink, handing it over before jamming his hands in the pockets of his jeans. You muster your best smile for him, though you can feel it tremble, and drink as much as you can. You don't want to talk about your dad and his condition right now, couldn't even if you did, and you tell him as much.

Nodding slowly he goes back to sit down and furrows his brows. "So… _are _you a prostitute?" For a few seconds you can do nothing but blink in shock before you bust out laughing. If you weren't laughing you're pretty sure you'd go back to crying, so you're thankful Derek's so strangely dead pan that you can't help but find him funny. Maybe it sounds a little delirious, but you think you're managing pretty well.

"A little bit, yes." You nervously twiddle your thumbs and keep your eyes averted. You wonder if he's regretting spending the while day with you, if he's eager to leave before you… infect him, or something.

"How exactly does one prostitute _a little bit_?" When you look back up his expression hasn't changed much, except there's a teasing twinkle in his eyes and a little quirk to his lips.

You scratch your temple while chuckling lightly, pausing a moment to carefully think out your answer. That's not something you generally do, but for some reason you care what he thinks about you. "Ah, well… You kinda do the sex thing a lot, but what they don't tell you is that you actually spend a whole lot more time just being poor as hell." He smiles a little at this and seems to ease into his chair a little more. "You know- scrounging up money for cheap groceries, sitting alone in bars hoping someone will take pity on you and get you drunk, eating an obscene amount of ice cream while watching late night tv after failing at both. .." You shrug your shoulders and blush fiercely when you realize you still have Derek's jacket. With a sheepish smile you pull on the sleeves and zip it up, glad not to have to be dealing with the hem of your shirt for a little while.

"No offense, but you don't seem like much of a hooker… aside from the clothes."

"Well, that's good." You rub the back of your neck and shuffle your feet before giving him a wry smile. "I don't exactly want to be one." His expression softens and he waits a moment before scooting his chair around to your side and just sitting closer. He doesn't try to touch you, doesn't try and say something to make it all better. He's just… there.

For some odd reason he's there for you. He doesn't have to be, he's not looking for something in return. It's sad that it's a bit of a novel concept to you, but you decide not to look too closely at that. "Then maybe you shouldn't be." You wish it was just as easy as that, you wish that you hadn't already looked at this a thousand times over and came up with the same answer- that you _had _to keep doing this. You don't realize that you said it out loud until he turns to you and makes sure to catch your gaze. "And you shouldn't be afraid to ask for help."

You swallow thickly before biting your lip and nodding. And maybe a few more tears roll down your cheeks, but this time they feel different. For the first time in a long time, they feel like relief.


End file.
